


Easiest Way To Go Is Up

by WriteThroughTheNight



Series: Wings [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: AU after Avengers, Angst, Child Abuse, Clint Barton Has Wings, Clint-centric, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:09:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2957972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriteThroughTheNight/pseuds/WriteThroughTheNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is the Avengers' token human. But Clint Barton is not human, not fully at least.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>The one where Clint has wings, and no one knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easiest Way To Go Is Up

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! As usual, I have no beta, except for the lovely bioluminescent who reads my things over for me. I worked on this story instead of her Christmas present so apologies there. This story was my baby, because who doesn't love the idea of Clint Barton with wings? Okay so it might be an obsession, sue me. 
> 
> Of course, with recent developments, this obviously doesn't match up with current Marvel canon, but oh well. There's a sequel I'll post in a few days, more like an epilogue really, but it didn't fit very well at the end of this story so. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for child abuse, and brief mentions of suicide

Clint Barton is the Avengers' token human. But Clint Barton is not human, not fully at least.

*

He is six years old, and chasing Barney through the woods. Honestly, he has no chance of catching his older brother, and both he and Barney know this, but neither of them stop running. Clint has been cooped up in the house for days with the flu, trapped with his fragile mother and unstable father. The latter's been drinking a lot recently. Barney and Mama hid Clint in the closet, so his Daddy wouldn't come after him and make his cough worse.

Clint is usually out there, taking hits with both of them like a prize fighter, like a superhero, he tells himself. But the break was nice.

Barney isn't running as fast as usual, but neither boy acknowledges the heavy limp. Their Mama has a bruise around her eye that's much harder to ignore.

Sometimes when they're out in the woods like this, Barney will take Clint onto his lap and treat him like an equal. He'll tell his little brother about how someday he'll stand up to Daddy and protect them, that he'll take Mama and Clint and run away, that Barney'll be the man of the house, take care of all three of them. Clint always nods and says Barney'll be good at that, even if he secretly believes they're never getting away from Daddy. 

But right now, they're running through the woods and Clint is giggling, able to breathe for what feels like the first time in days. It's freeing and wonderful and he gets the chance to actually be a kid and- and then the pain strikes him down.

It's like nothing Clint has ever felt before. It feels like someone is setting his insides on fire, twisting them around and squeezing and scratching. Clint thinks he hears screaming, which is odd because it doesn't sound like Barney. It doesn't sound like Barney at all, so who could it be?

The pain is centered around his shoulder blades, shocking Clint's nerve endings alight, and it's just about million times worse than Daddy breaking his arm. Clint thought he knew pain, but it is nothing compared to this agony-

Something snaps, Clint can feel it. Something snaps, and the pain flares for one blinding second, before disappearing completely. As if it had never been there at all.

Clint opens his eyes, which is weird because he doesn't remember closing them. At first everything is blurry, and Clint realizes why when he feels the wetness on his face. One eye doesn't open at all, and he realizes that at some point he must have sprawled across the ground. Clint wants to get up, but although the pain may be gone, he is tired, more tired than he has ever been before. And there is a strange weight on his back, like arms pinning him down. Moving at all is too much of an effort.

Clint finally blinks his way through his tears and focuses on his brother. Barney is still there, but about twenty feet away, looking at Clint with an expression he can't decipher. Clint aches all over and he just wants his brother to come over, and tell him it'll all be okay.

"Barney..." Clint's voice rasps and hurts, badly. It isn't all from his flu, he knows it. Clint realizes that the voice he heard screaming was his own, and shivers lightly. Finally deciphering his brother's expression doesn't help. It's the same naked fear that Barney saves for their father in a rage. The weight on his back twitches, and Clint wants nothing more to turn his head and see what it is, but he's tired, and he hurts.

Barney flinches at the sound of his younger brother's voice. Clint feels a flash of alarm, and what he thinks is hurt. But before he can say anything else, Barney is running, running and leaving Clint lying on the forest floor. 

Clint lets the tears flow.

His wings lay against his back, useless and mourning with him.

*

It takes far too long for Clint to learn how to will them away. It takes weeks, weeks of Mama's careful coaching and instruction. Weeks of trying to conceal the wings from Daddy. In the end it isn't anything his mother teaches him that does it, but pure, basic instinct.

Clint can't conceal two entire appendages from his father forever.

It's sixteen days after the appearance of his wings. In this time, Clint has only really interacted with Mama. Barney took one look at him, and refused to come near. He wonders why his brother finds his wings ugly, when Clint finds them beautiful and majestic. (Perhaps the reason Clint has such a hard time concealing them is because he doesn't really want to.)

When Mama found him, crying on the forest floor, wings pressing him down, she had tutted, and gathered him into her arms. 

"Shh, my little angel. It's alright." Mama cooed, stroking a hand down his feathers. The pain fled instantly, replaced with the pleasure of attention and touch. Mama hadn't kissed it better, but the effect was the same.

He is too young to really care about the family history she teaches him, but years later he will remember. Mama is seldom excited or interested about anything, but family history does both. Wings are a family trait she says, but it isn't absolute. She has them, along with her father, but only half of her brothers do. Her mother's entire family were wingless, but three quarters of her paternal cousins have them. Clint has never met his extended family, and listening to his mother trace the family name back years and years is like listening to a fairy tale. Pretty, but utterly unconnected to himself. 

When Clint begs, she shows him her wings. They're pale white things, speckled with grey. To Clint, they look sickly, yellowing and mangy. Mama says it's because she hasn't been able to take care of them for a while, and that night, Clint hugs his own wings to himself.

His are nothing like Mama's. His wings are golden, brown, and white, like the feathers of a hawk, Clint learns. They're soft like a blanket, and warm. When Clint has his wings out, he doesn't feel alone.

Everything is fine, everything's going great, even if he can't figure out how to tuck his wings. Mama taught him how to flap around a little, and how to glide. She taught him how to take care of them. But the one thing she can't teach Clint is how to make them disappear, to tuck them into that open spot in his mind. 

They fit there automatically when he sleeps, but as soon as he wakes up, they flap back into existence.

But Clint's learning, he is, and then Daddy comes home early.

Ten minutes later and Clint is crying, sobbing, and Mama can't get to him, can't help him. Daddy keeps hitting him and hitting him, and calling him a freak and a monster.

Clint hurts all over, but Daddy doesn't stop, and then he picks up a broken bottle.

"Freak! How'd you like me to cut them off you, huh?" Daddy snarls. Clint tries scrambling away, but his back and wings hit the wall. There's nowhere to run. The fear of losing his wings is overwhelming, and Clint thinks he might be screaming, but he isn't sure.

A big, rough hand grasps the back of his neck far too tight, and drags him away from the wall. Clint kicks and screams, he thinks, but most of his mind is too busy panicking.

"Daddy, please no!" Clint screams. "Please don't!" 

Clint's feet leave the ground, and Daddy smacks him into the wall, once, twice. For a moment, Clint is too dazed to fight. That's when Daddy brings the broken bottle down.

There's a world of pain, and then Daddy is cursing, shouting a question at Clint. He blacks out.

*

When Clint wakes up, it hurts to move. But the first thing he notices is that his wings are gone.

He panics.

It takes Mama half an hour to get Clint to let his wings out, so she can bandage them.

There will be a scar on the right one, but Clint will still be able to fly painlessly. 

He doesn't voluntarily show them to anyone except Mama for the next twenty years.

(Barney- Barney is the one exception, and his brother ends up hurting Clint nearly as bad as their father did.)

*

Clint's only been working with Agent Phil Coulson three months when everything goes to shit.

Clint watches Coulson lose his grip on the edge of the roof, hand sticky with his own blood. Clint watches the calm realization overtake the other man's face, that he's going to die. Clint watches and says,

"Fuck it." After a year and a half, he finally has a handler that he likes. Beyond that, Coulson is a good man, cutting humor aside.

Clint hasn't shown his wings to anyone since Barney nearly killed him in the circus, but Coulson can be the exception. Death is a lot different from the other side.

To Coulson's wide eyes, Clint throws himself off the roof. For a brief, terrifying second, he thinks his wings won't burst out his back, twin arches of feather. But of course they do, and Clint flaps to get his balance, the hidden scar tissue pulling tight.

He hasn't had the chance to fly in what feels like far too long. But Clint doesn't let himself linger; he instead dives after Coulson. The man himself looks half-aware, hovering on the edge of consciousness. His eyes betray him though, focused adamantly over Clint's shoulders.

Which, to his credit, he nearly wrenches out of his sockets to catch Coulson and stabilize them. Clint gasps brokenly in pain, but tightens his grip on his handler's wrists. There's no way he can hold flight for long, and he glides them to nearby rooftop.

When they touch down, Clint is expecting exclamations, accusations. Instead, Coulson stares blearily and rasps, "Thanks," before passing out. Clint pulls at his shirt, sees the blood seeping out of the stab wound, curses.

He's damned if he went to all this trouble for Coulson to die. 

It's touch and go for a while, but Clint manages to stitch the wound, and get them both to a safe house. When Coulson wakes up, Clint hopes desperately that he's forgotten the wings, that he's forgotten Clint's mad attempt to save his life.

Coulson has always defied Clint's expectations, always, and it's part of why Clint likes him, why he saved the other man's life at the cost of his greatest secret. So of course the man looks at him, blue eyes calm and clear despite the wound in his side, and says,

"Your file neglected to mention you have wings, Barton."

"My file neglected a lot of things, sir." Clint replies, heart in his throat. If Coulson says that it'll go in his file now, if Coulson is going to snitch on him... Clint will have to run. He'll have to run and never look back and throw away any progress he might've made atoning for his sins.

Clint never discovers what it was in his eyes that made Coulson pause. All he knows is that the handler he had come to like smiles at him, just a little quirk of lips, but a smile none the less. Even then, something in Clint melts.

"I'll see to it that it stays that way."

*

It stays that way.

*

There is skin and lips and Coulson is arching beneath Clint's touch, Phil is breaking apart beneath him, because he's been Phil for at least a year now, and it's wonderful, it's fantastic, it's _perfect-_

"Clint." Phil gasps in his ear. "Clint." 

Phil rolls them, so he's on top, and Clint doesn't feel pinned he feels safe, he feels-

Phil presses his lips to Clint's again, and again, and Clint breathes him in. It's hot and slick and wet and everything, everything it could ever be, and-

"Your wings, take out your wings, Clint." Phil pants against his lips, into his mouth. "Please I want to feel them, they were so beautiful, Clint, you're so beautiful-"

Clint is frozen at the request, and the words, and Phil notices. The older man turns flushes in horror, in shame.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ask- obviously you don't have to if you're not comfortable-"

Clint looks at the person he trusts most in the world, at the only person he truly trusts. He thinks of Phil's blood on his hands, and his own blood on Phil's. He thinks of the breathless adrenaline of saving the world and each other, and the terrifying waits in medical. Clint looks at Phil, and sees what he could have, someday, someday soon, and thinks 'oh god, I think I might love him'.

His wings snap into existence without Clint really even trying, and he tries not to cry at the joy, the pure ecstasy on Phil's face. 

"Oh, Clint, they're so beautiful. May I touch?"

Clint doesn't know if he can say it out loud, give permission to bare his most precious things to Phil's hands to destroy. He doesn't know if he can say it out loud, so the wings act of their own accord, reaching to brush down the length of Phil's spine. Phil shivers and touches, and then everything is white hot and so good, too good. Clint might be dying or he might be exploding, he can't tell-

*

Later that night, wings tucked away again, Clint will whisper the story of his wings into Phil's skin. Phil will listen, and apologize and mourn with him. 

When Phil thinks he has fallen asleep, Clint hears him speak. 

"I'll protect you, and your wings. No one will hurt you, Clint, I promise."

Something in Clint wants to believe him. Coulson has never let him down before.

*

Coulson never does.

****

Blue.

Pain.

Loki.

Phil.

Phil is dead, because Clint wasn't there to save him.

Everything is fire and pain, and too much blue.

*

Clint wakes up screaming. 

The sheets beneath his hands wrap around his body, constricting him, and he can't get away, he can't-

"Agent Barton, please calm down. Clint, you are at Stark Tower, you are safe, you are no longer under Loki's control-"

"Phil." Clint gasps.

Jarvis pauses, before continuing carefully.

"I'm afraid that Agent Coulson is still deceased."

The nausea rushes in from Clint's toes, and he falls out of bed, stumbles to the bathroom. Beneath his feet, the floor sways and sinks like the ocean, and Clint closes his eyes as he drops to his knees in front of the toilet. Emptying his stomach takes care of the nausea, but not the tears pricking Clint's eyelids.

He gasps one breath, and another, ragged like he's been running.

Clint opens his eyes to white, not blue, and it might be this that helps him keep his sanity.

"Clint?" Jarvis asks, after a few minutes have dragged on.

"Yeah?" 

"Would you like me to loop the footage so that you may manifest your wings?" 

Clint laughs, trembling against cold tile. The only person alive that knows about his wings is an artificial intelligence. Somehow the only person alive that he trusts with his biggest secret isn't really alive.

"Yes, please, Jarvis." 

"Looping footage now, please hold." Jarvis tells him.

Standing is a struggle, but Clint bites his lip and does it anyway. He makes his way slowly back into the bedroom, and tugs his shirt over his head.

His muscles scream at him, but Clint has become an expert on ignoring them. He's still not completely healed from the battle, and being thrown through a window, but he's getting there. Clint has it down to an art by now, and he's pretty sure the only two people who know that he's still injured are Natasha and Jarvis. 

"Should I disable audio as well?" Jarvis asks him. Clint shakes his head, belatedly remembering that Jarvis no longer has eyes.

"That's alright, Jarvis. Just don't tell Tony." 

Jarvis huffs, offended, and Clint can't help the slight grin he gives the ceiling. When Jarvis doesn't proceed to say anything more, Clint lowers himself onto the floor. The stitching on his right shoulder protests momentarily, before he's comfortably situated. Then Clint closes his eyes, and _reaches._

Seconds later, two large brown and white wings explode into existence. Heavy on Clint's back, but impossibly light at the same time, Clint sobs a little at the press of them. Jarvis wisely doesn't comment, and the wings fold themselves around him. After all these years, they're still soft, because Clint has never let them be anything less than well groomed. No matter how difficult it can be, he finds a way to at least douse them with water once a month.

Phil used to help.

Brokenly, Clint buries his hands into his feathers. He cries.

They wrap around him like arms, like blankets, and Clint lets himself pretend that it's Phil, that things are still okay, that he didn't kill his own husband. They wrap around him and it pulls on his shoulder, a flare of agony, but for just one second, Clint can breathe again.

The wings are the one thing Loki hadn't gotten to, are the one thing no one has gotten to since his father, since Barney standing over him in the circus. 

The wings aren't enough.

Clint buries his fist into his mouth and screams.

After an eternity, Clint loosens his wings, and sends them away. When he staggers to his feet, Clint feels a bit better, almost like he can make it through another day. The empty hole inside him tugs, but Clint just pulls on his shirt and goes to find some food.

"This is your third nightmare this week." Jarvis tries to say.

"It's fine." It's not, but Jarvis agrees to pretend with him.

*

Clint realizes it's five in the morning when he walks into the communal kitchen and everything is dark. Feeling a bit like an idiot, Clint is just going to grab some fruit and wait for a more reasonable time to come back, when a voice comes from the living room.

"Couldn't sleep?" 

Clint conceals his jump, and, grabbing an apple, walks over to lean against the door jamb.

Steve lies on the couch, stretched across the length of it. The television plays quietly, some movie that Clint vaguely recognizes. Either way, the screen is the only source of light in the room and the soft glow of it barely outlines the figure on the sofa.

"I suppose so, Cap." Clint tells the shadow where Steve's face should be.

"Me neither." The other man says, soft. He sits up, and the spell of stillness ends. Clint watches him warily as Steve pats the seat next to him. "Come sit down if you want."

After a moment of consideration, Clint shrugs mentally.

"Alright."

The movie is actually pretty good, even if the geese plot line is a little farfetched. Fly Away Home, Clint thinks the movie might be called. He munches on his apple, tossing it with perfect aim into the waste bin when he's done. Steve gives Clint a little clap, and he smirks.

"Why're you down here anyway, Steve? Don't you have a TV on your floor?" Inexplicably, the younger man (older man?) blushes. Before Clint can stop himself, he's thinking of telling Phil that he made Captain America blush, that he made his idol turn bright red- Clint does stop himself, but not quick enough. He aches all over, and his thumb comes up to rub at his empty ring finger. Steve doesn't notice, thankfully.

"It gets really quiet, in the apartment all by myself." 

Clint gestures around them.

"It isn't much louder up here, no sane person is up before seven unless they have to be."

Steve shrugs. "I didn't notice the time."

Clint would comment on that, but he figures he doesn't really have a leg to stand on. They don't speak again until the movie ends, happily of course, Clint can't help but think viciously. The geese get to go home, but Phil never does.

"I've always wanted to fly." Steve says out of nowhere. The credits are rolling, and it's only the fact that Steve is studying them intently that lets Clint's flinch go unnoticed. For one terrifying and all-consuming second, he thinks that somehow Steve knows, that somehow Steve found out his secret. 

"Yeah?" Clint managed, around the lump in his throat.

Steve turns to him and frowns. 

"You don't agree?" The relief is instantaneous, Steve doesn't know, Clint's secret is safe, his wings are safe. To cover it, Clint shrugs.

"I can fly a 'jet, it's almost the same thing." It's really not, Clint knows, but then Steve would want to know how he knew otherwise and, well. 

"No planes." Steve all but snaps. Clint winces, remembering belatedly that Steve crashed a plane into a watery death. Hardly tactful, Clint.

"You could get Tony to make you something? He would probably be delighted." Clint suggests. And it's true. Since the battle, all of the Avenger's have trickled in to live in Stark Tower. Whether it was the constant proximity or the less chaotic situation, they've all discovered they get along rather well. Even Tony and Steve, sometimes especially Tony and Steve. Though it hurts, Clint imagines what Phil's face would look like if he saw just how much of a devious little shit Steve could be.

At the moment, Steve is shaking his head, determined glint in his eye.

"No, it just wouldn't be the same. Wings- wings would be amazing. Can you imagine that? Being able to just soar through the air, above everything?" Steve says, wistful and focused on the television.

Clint swallows hard, and thinks about wind between his feathers and the ground stretching out for miles beneath him.

"No, I can't imagine it." Clint rasps. "But I imagine it would be beautiful."

The next day, some enterprising super-villain attacks New York, and the team suits up again. Clint's shoulder still aches, but he powers through it and doesn't miss a shot. Near the end of the battle, when his perch is destroyed and his grappling arrows out, Clint falls, and it could be the end of him. A little voice that sounds like Phil shouts at him to pull his wings out, to catch himself before it's too late. He doesn't, and in the next second Thor is tugging him out of the sky to a landing.

This time Clint doesn't have to choose to release his wings or not, but he knows what he would do.

*

The next times he makes the same choice, again and again, and wonders almost hopefully when his luck will run out.

*

"How are you holding up, Clint?" Director Fury asks him over a cup of coffee. They're out of the SHIELD office because Nick was going stir crazy and because in there they can only be Agent Barton and Director Fury. For years now, it's been Nick and Clint, because you can only save another person's life so many times before they become a friend. When someone was your husband's best man, it's downright disrespectful to be anything less.

"Pretty shitty, Nick." Clint says softly, taking a sip of his coffee and relishing the burn on his tongue.

"I'm sorry." Nick tells him, for the thousandth time, for the millionth, and it doesn't help Clint stop seeing his husband going down, bleeding out, dying.

"When are you going to give me his badge back?" Clint asks, equally quiet. 

"As soon as I can." Nick swears. His eyes, all Director Fury say _As soon as I know you won't run._

Clint rises, and slaps a twenty on the table.

"Somehow I doubt that." Clint bites out. Besides, if he was going to leave, he wouldn't be running, he'd be _flying._

*

"Let me see him." 

"Listen, it's not that simple, he's my friend too, I know-"

"Nick, I swear to god, if you don't let me see my husband I'll-"

"I get it! I do, Cheese, but you need to get a little bit better first, you need-"

"I'd be better if Clint was here."

"You can't even walk up and down the hallway without being exhausted. I'm sorry, but I need more time."

"What's your game? I don't understand."

"You think this is a game? I'm trying to help you here, Phil! I'm trying to keep this fucking team together and the WSC away!"

"You will give me my husband, or I will go and get him myself."

"Phil-"

"Alright, fine."

"Dammit."

"..."

"Stop it! You're hurting yourself, you can't-"

"..."

"Nurse!"

*

"Clint, is there anyway you could stop throwing yourself off of so many buildings?" Natasha asks him sharply.

Clint takes aim, and bounces a ball off Steve's shield, the wall, and back into his hand. With his next shot, he manages to ping both Tony's brief case, Bruce's chair and the table in front of Natasha. Her hand closes on it before his own can. Sighing, he looks up to meet her eyes.

"It's not like it's on purpose, Nat. Besides people keep catching me."

"I'm not a freaking valet service, Legolas." Tony snaps. 

"While the Hulk has been fairly proficient so far," Bruce interjects, "He could easily forget his own strength and hurt you."

"I would not much like being too slow to save you, friend." Thor throws in, quiet by his standards.

Clint throws up his hands.

"Seriously, what do you want me to do?" 

Tony tilts his head, before getting a truly maniacal spark in his eye.

"Well, maybe I could rig you something, a little jet pack-"

"No." Clint says immediately. "Just no." The thought of using something besides himself for flying, that could very well hinder his wings' ability to appear...

Tony looks hurt.

Clint shakes his head.

"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, Tony, but something like that could throw off my aim." Seeing the resolute, and touchingly concerned faces of his team around him, Clint sighs. "I'll try to be a little more careful, okay? Pack more grappling arrows or something."

Though Nat and the rest of the team don't look entirely satisfied, they nod. Thor stands, and claps once, before booming.

"Now then, fellow warriors! Shall we not feast? For our battle has been won!"

"I'm with Thor on this one." Steve admits, rising to his feet and stretching his arms above his head. Everyone but Thor admires the piece of skin revealed, before looking pointedly away. Hey, they're only human!

*

Clint manages to avoid getting thrown off a roof for two entire battles. The team looks intensely proud of him, and Clint can't help but feel guilty when he sneaks away with Jarvis's help for a day to stretch his wings. After he's washed his wings off as best he could in a stream, Clint takes to the air. There's no one for miles, and he feels safe up here. Swooping into a dive, Clint can't help but think how easy it would be to just vanish his wings. There's no one to catch him.

Almost immediately the little voice in his head that sounds like Phil tells him to stop being an idiot, to bear up goddammit. Clint obliges.

*

One morning, after Clint has tucked his wings back in and wiped the tears from his face, he finds Natasha in the Tower's gym. She's beating the tar out of a punching bag, sweat dribbling down the back of her neck, red hair vibrant like blood. 

"Spar?" Clint offers quietly. Natasha tosses him the tape to wrap his knuckles, because of course she knew he would come.

It's been a while, but eventually Clint and Natasha find a rhythm, familiar to them both. There's something missing, namely Phil's acerbic commentary on the sidelines, but neither of them mentions it. Natasha is quicker, and more skilled, from both the bit of serum in her veins and her excellence. The only hope that Clint has is that he's no pushover himself, and that he does technically have size on her. Like usual, they fight to a standstill. After the hundreds of times they've done this, they have no new moves, no new tricks. It's less like sparring, more like dancing around each other.

When they've been going for nearly a half hour, Nat throws sticks into the mix. They fall into this rhythm too. Strike, parry, strike, parry, circle. And on and on.

Eventually, Clint flops down to the mat, and Natasha follows. They're both drenched in sweat, worn thin, but it feels good. Nat presses up against his side, and Clint slides an arm under her head. He laughs when she wrinkles her nose at the smell, but she doesn't move, stays pressed up against him.

"Alright?" She asks after a while, when Clint's scalp has gone numb from the constant and insistent scrape of her nails.

"I'm getting there." Clint replies. They both know he's lying.

"You can tell me anything, Yastreb." 

Clint thinks immediately of his wings, and wants nothing in that moment but to tell Nat, to tell her the secret he's held for so long. The light plays tricks on Clint's mind, and for a second, he sees his father's face, Barney's face. Natasha would do more damage than either of them, if she hurt his wings. Natasha would destroy him. 

"I know, Nat. I know."

****

Things may have stayed like that, for god knows how long, if not for Natasha, flying squid, and an unfortunate series of explosions.

*

Whichever supervillain that's behind this particular attack is either incredibly stupid or incredibly smart. The jury is still out.

Clint looses another arrow into yet another one of the... creatures... and it crashes to the ground with a sick squelch. Despite the words SHIELD throws around, these things resemble nothing more than flying squids, and Stark delights on repeatedly pointing this out. No doubt the attack would be subverted already if not for the so-called evil genius's affinity for explosions.

Every time they get close, the maniac sets off another bomb, and brings down another building in their path. Grimly, Clint prays that the entire city's been evacuated.

Somehow this week's villain managed to spread his attack over what feels like all of New York, and after so long working nearly side-by-side, it's odd being separated from the rest of the team. Clint and Natasha are working this section, attempting to reach the target, with the Hulk and Thor in the thick of the squids. Steve and Tony take turns arguing and shooting down the things, which are thankfully quite susceptible to bullets, arrows, repulser beams, lightning bolts, and good old-fashioned smashing. To be perfectly honest, they're a rather shoddy army.

However, they are annoying, and distracting, Clint has found. If he and Natasha can't make a move on their master soon, he runs the risk of getting away.

Clint sits in waiting for a shot, while Natasha does her thing, throwing herself from squids and buildings alike, leaving behind destruction and a trail of carnage. She's working her way up a skyscraper, only a speck in Clint's sight. He'd be worried about her, but Natasha can handle herself. Any second now, Clint will get a bead on their villain, and any second now this entire mess will be over. As if summoned by the archer's thoughts, out of the shadows comes the target, slimy and furious. He's a tall man, but sickly skinny, hair greased back with either gel or squid guts. He flinches slightly, every time a squid goes down, and it increases Clint's conviction that he's connected to the flying squids somehow. Take him down, and it'll be all over.

People should know better than to mess with New York by now, Clint thinks sharply, sighting down his arrow.

Three things happen at once. 

First, the villain looks up and catches sight of Clint. Second, Clint releases his shot and at the same time, the other man smiles, and reaches into his coat. Third, the skyscraper Natasha is bouncing off of explodes.

The man is dead, arrow to the eye, and all around the squids are falling. Definitely linked to the man then. But the squids aren't the only things falling. Natasha is dropping like a rock, and even at more than fifty stories up she's got maybe ten seconds. There's no one around, no one will reach her in time.

Clint thinks of Phil, falling away from him, and of Nat his best friend, his partner. Clint thinks, for maybe a quarter of a second, and then he throws himself off the roof.

He's calling for air support, even as he knows it won't be quick enough. Clint calls anyway even as he unfurls his wings into existence, even as he pushes himself to go faster, quicker, to get there in time. Clint screams Natasha's name, even as he hears Tony's curse and Steve's surprise. She looks up, a second before he reaches her, and it's like déjà-vu, it's like Phil all over again, because she's looking over Clint's shoulders, staring at his wings for the first time. 

Clint wraps his arms around Nat and pulls upward with all his might, with all his strength. He ignores the foreign touch against his feathers that tells him to run, to hide. Natasha's heavy, but she's lighter than Phil, Clint can do this, their descent is already slowing, it's going to be okay-

There's a blast of sound, deafening, a sudden rush of heat and force.

Clint cries out, once, as his wings are flung off course, wrenched out of their sockets. By then they're falling, and there's nothing Clint can do to slow them, nothing. Nat has her arms wrapped around him, and Clint around her, and the ground or maybe a building rushes up to meet them.

At the last possible second, Clint flings his wings around them both, and prays.

There's shouting in his ear, questions, his name, Nat's. There's a collision, and a terrible, crippling pain in his left wing. It's like nothing he's felt before, worse than his father bearing down with an empty bottle, worse than Barney's curled fist.

Then there's darkness.

*

Clint wakes to excruciating pain along his wing, and hands in his feathers. Only Phil is allowed to touch his wings, and these hands aren't Phil's. Callouses in the wrong places, these hands don't belong in his feathers, and they're hurting him oh god, does it hurt. Clint might be screaming, he can't tell, but when he opens his eyes people are all around him, pressing in on him. Every last one has the shape of his father, of his brother, and if Clint wasn't screaming before he is now. The next few seconds are a blur, but he thinks he rises off the table. Somehow Clint gains his feet, and lashes out with his good wing.

The people fall away, and it hurts, it hurts so badly.

Clint looks down at his left wing.

It's bent at the wrong angle, a mass of blood and feathers. Anything that was white is now red, or scraped off completely from where they must have hit. It feels as bad as it looks, maybe worse, and some part of Clint's brain recognizes that these people are doctors, that they're trying to help him. However, the majority of Clint's brain sees the blood and thinks 'not again'. 

Panicked, Clint wills them away, into the spot in his mind, even if it makes them hurt worse, impossibly, terribly. Clint wills his wings away, and flees. He won't make it out, not weakened as he is, they'll take him down, easily. Clint won't make it out, so he goes up instead, disappearing into the ventilation without so much as a pause.

*

Phil Coulson watches the latest Avengers Battle with baited breath. It's like this every time, and it sends the heart monitor haywire, but it's part of the Conditions. Namely, part of what Phil demands to stay in bed instead of trying to break out every other day. It had been a harrowing and nearly fatal few weeks before Nick had agreed to the Conditions.

Condition #1:

Phil had access to any and all feeds relating to the Avengers and/or Clint.

Clause A:

Including and especially any fights in which the above participated in.

Condition #2: 

Anyone that tried to interfere with the above Condition will be shot.

It still isn't perfect, but at least Phil knows what his husband is getting up to, constantly.

So, when the flying squids attack New York, Phil watches. When Clint and Natasha- ahem Hawkeye and the Black Widow- track down the brain behind it all, Phil watches. When Clint takes the shot and the skyscraper Nat is both climbing and jumping off of explodes, Phil, unfortunately, watches.

Phil of course, watches the next thirty seconds in horror as Clint jumps after her, and unfurls his wings _on live television_. Phil doesn't know whether to be proud of Clint's sacrifice or completely terrified as his husband wraps his arms around Nat, slowing their descent. Then, a last part of the skyscraper explodes, and Phil's vision whites out as his husband hurtles out of view, and the announcer shouts something about Hawkeye being down, does anyone have eyes, are they alive-

Colors come back and Phil's heart monitor is going insane, and he would care, except he can't breathe, his throat is closing, Clint just jumped off a fucking roof and into an explosion-

There are hands pressing him down, nurses saying something, but Phil can't hear them, all he can hear is the announcer saying 'status unknown' and Clint isn't visible under the smoke and debris.

Numbly, he ignores the nurses, and watches as first Iron Man and then Hulk appear on scene, Thor and the Captain not far behind. 

Phil trembles and he can't see what's going on, not even Hulk is visible now, but the news helicopter is circling back to try and get a better angle.

"Agent Coulson! The Director is on the line!"

Phil blinks out of his daze, and grabs the phone with a hand only slightly shaky.

"Nick." He rasps into it.

"He's fine, he's banged up, but Stark says his vitals are stable. One of his wings is-" Nick swallows hard over the line.

Dread pools in Phil's stomach and tries to imagine Clint being himself without his wings. They're a part of him, and after all he's gone through...

"One of his wings is what, Nick?" Phil demands.

"Apparently one of them is badly broken. Did you know he-"

Phil interrupts again.

"Yes, I did. Is he going to lose it?" Just saying the words burn, and for the first time in years Phil almost wants to pray.

"What do you mean you knew? This isn't something you just keep to yourself, Coulson!"

"Nick." Phil says, warning clear in his tone.

The Director growls.

"How am I supposed to know? I'm not exactly an expert on fucking winged people, Cheese."

"Are you bringing him into SHIELD HQ?" Phil hears himself say.

"Yeah, the medics'll do what they can." Fury says, the fact that he's still pissed evident in his voice. Said tone would send any intelligent life form scurrying, but Phil isn't in the mood to play good little subordinate.

"I'm going to see him." Phil informs the Director. The response is immediate.

"Like hell you are."

"It's not a request, sir." Phil says, low and dangerous. "I'm done playing this stupid game of yours. Clint is hurt and you are going to let me see my husband. But for now, you are going to get me video feed, or I swear on our friendship that I will break out of this room right this second, and kill anyone who tries to stop me. Are we clear?"

For a second, he thinks Fury will deny him, and that he'll have to follow through on his threat. Then, the screen in front of him changes, and it shows him live video from the back of a SHIELD van. Not only is Clint there, but Natasha too. The latter is even conscious, and getting a butterfly bandage placed on her forehead.

Clint, however, Clint is a mess. He's covered in dirt, from head to toe, and his wings-

One of them is okay, nearly black with dirt, but still whole. His left wing- his left wing looks like it went through a blender. Phil winces, and aches for Clint, for his wing. It's still attached, and it will heal, Phil makes himself believe. If the wings could hold up through all the shit that Clint went through, they can hold up through this.

"Thank you." Phil says roughly.

"I'll send for you, after we've got him stabilized and bandaged up." Nick finally replies. He sounds exhausted, like he was the one that nearly died, instead of Phil's husband. "The game is up, I suppose, and besides, everyone is going to want answers about these bloody wings."

The line clicks off.

Phil sits back in the bed, eyes focused wholly on the screen in front of him. Belatedly, he notices that the nurses have backed off, and that he's alone in the room. It's a relief, even if the white walls have gotten unbearably lonely in the month and a half he's been awake. 

Phil banishes every thought from his mind, and watches his husband. Watches as Clint is moved into HQ, in the official Medical wing, far from Phil's position. Watches as through some act of idiocy, no one thinks to sedate Clint before they start touching his wing.

It's no surprise to Phil when Clint starts screaming, even if the muted sound makes him unbearably angry. When Clint staggers to his feet, Phil can only watch, watch as even in his pain his husband takes out everyone in the room. Clint is terrified, and hurting, and Phil isn't _there_ goddammit-

He's up and out of the bed before he's really thought anything through, ripping the IV out of his wrist and the sensors off his chest. The wound in his back pulls as Phil stumbles out of bed, and for a second he thinks the pain will bring him down, will take him down. Then he watches Clint tuck away his wings and disappear into the air ducts. If his husband can do it with a freshly broken limb, then Phil can do it with a partially-healed stab wound.

It hurts like hell, and Phil's sweating by the time he's gotten the grate above the bed open, but it's something he has to do.

It's the next part that'll be the hardest anyway, the next part that'll- 

The door rattles where Phil's locked it and braced it with a chair. With one last deep breath, Phil places his hands on the floor of the duct and heaves.

He might scream, in fact, he definitely does, but Phil manages it, he manages to get himself just that much closer to his husband. For a second, Phil just lies there in the vent, trying and failing to catch his breath. Eventually, when an almighty clatter announces the breaching of the room, Phil finds it in himself to move. 

Every foot is agony, the scars on both his back and front pulling tight. Phil gnaws his lip bloody, but he knows these vents almost as well as Clint, knows how to get to his husband without completely killing himself. All he has to do is make his way to the offices and then he can see Clint again, touch his husband for the first time in months.

Phil can do it, for Clint he can do it.

*

"Okay, so besides Natasha, who here knew that our very own birdbrain is literally part bird?" Tony Stark asks the room at large. 

"I didn't know." Natasha snaps. It's not meant to be vicious, Steve thinks, but she's doing a poor job of concealing her hurt. It's easier to lash out.

Of course, this is a warning Tony doesn't heed.

"What do you mean you didn't know? Pull the other one, everyone here knows that you and Barton are practically married." 

Steve feels his face heat, while Bruce kicks Tony under the table. Thor is as usual, utterly bemused.

"It's not like that." Natasha says very slowly. Tony bristles at being talked down to like a child, but Steve reaches over to lay a hand on his arm before he interrupts. "Clint is my partner and my best friend. We're close, but we aren't fucking."

Tony snorts.

"Yeah, whatever, but you can't seriously expect us to believe you didn't know your best friend had wings!"

Thor clears his throat.

"I do not understand."

Tony, in fine form today, snorts again. 

"Understatement of the century." Steve resists the urge to hit him, because he knows that half the reason Tony is acting like this is because he's hurt that Clint didn't trust them, him, and he's worried for the archer's health. The other half is because Tony is just naturally an asshole. The Avengers love him for it.

"Why is it that our glorious archer possessing such fine wings creates such strife?" Thor asks, ignoring Tony.

Bruce, exhausted as ever after a battle, smiles at Thor.

"We don't mind the wings, Thor, we just wish Clint had trusted us with them."

Natasha flinches. Steve presses his foot to hers briefly, and she meets his eyes.

"Tasha, we hate to ask, but is there anyone you can think of who might have known about Clint's wings?" Steve asks.

Natasha heaves a sigh, and her shoulders droop. It's the most emotion she's let them see in a while, and even Tony sobers at it.

"Coulson. Coulson probably knew." She answers.

Steve blinks, nonplussed. Even Tony doesn't seem to know what to do with that information. 

"Clint knew Agent Coulson?" Bruce asks. As a whole, they had assumed the archer hadn't really known him. Barton hadn't gone to the public memorial that SHIELD hosted, and had never butted in when the others started talking about the Agent. Maybe that had been a hint that they missed all along. Clint always put in his two cents.

"Clint and Coulson knew each other for nearly a decade, basically since Clint came to SHIELD. Coulson was the only handler that Clint worked well with, and they were something of best friends. By the time the mission to take me out came along, well, they'd been in a relationship for two and a half years."

"What?" Tony screeches. Steve bites back the echo dying to come out.

Natasha smirks, but it's a poor attempt. Her eyes are tired and unbearably sad.

"When New York came around Clint and Phil had just celebrated their sixth anniversary. Director Fury was Coulson's best man."

"Well shit." Tony says, heavily.

Steve feels nauseous now, thinking of how much Clint lost, and how none of them except Natasha even knew. Bruce's knuckles are tinted green, ever so slightly, but Steve trusts him to get control of it.

"I was not aware that our Hawk and the Son of Coul were Shield Brothers." Thor intones solemnly. "Clinton is stronger than we ever suspected."

There aren't really any words to be said, so they sit in silence. In a turn of events everyone expects, Tony is the first to break it.

"Alright, fantastic. Anyone else have any bombshells they'd like to drop? Because now's the time." When no one says anything, Tony claps his hands. Steve wants to tell him to stop, but he doesn't have the energy. "What about you, Jarvis, my man? Anything you'd like to tell the class?"

The AI in question hesitates, and Steve raises his eyebrows.

"Sir, in the interest of full discretion..." 

Tony grins, even if his heart isn't behind it.

"You stepping out with a lady friend, Jarvis?"

"Not quite, sir. I have been aware of Agent Barton's... ability for quite some time."

For the second time that day, Tony screeches,

"What?"

*

"Clint. Clint, I need you to open your eyes." 

Clint squeezes his eyes closed even tighter. Phil is dead, Phil is gone, Phil cannot be talking to him right now.

"Please, Clint. Please."

It's nice to pretend though. Maybe if Clint just lays here he can pretend that Phil is really here, that Loki never happened.

In that spot in his mind Clint's wing throbs, and he whimpers, just a little, just enough. Phil's voice is closer, strained, and Clint fancies that he can even feel Phil's breath against his face, short and harsh.

"Clint. I really need you to open your eyes for me, okay?" 

He sounds so real, so Phil, that Clint can't stand it. There's an ache in his chest, almost as sharp as the one in his wing, and it's stupid to keep pretending not when he needs to make a plan, he needs to-

Clint opens his eyes.

Phil is still there, hovering above him. Quite frankly, he looks like shit, pale and stick thin, hospital gown hanging off his frame, dark circles purple like bruises. Phil's beaded with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, panting like he's just run a race. Though he's leaning over Clint, Phil looks seconds from collapsing on top of him. It hurts that place in Clint's chest where Phil used to live, that his husband is hurting, that his husband looks so real. 

"You're not real." Clint tells him. His voice catches him by surprise, rough and inhuman, broken and pained. 

Phil flinches.

"Yes, I am." The ghost tells him.

Clint laughs, bitter as a lemon.

"You died." He accuses.

"Not really, I was in a coma for a while, but I didn't die. I promise. I'm real, Clint." 

Clint shakes his head, and once he starts he can't stop. He's shaking all over, trembling like a leaf, and it hurts, everything hurts, his wings, Phil, it's too much.

There's a shock, and then stillness, because Phil's hands are on his face, cupping his jaw. A little cold, a little clammy, but there. 

Clint's either lost his mind or Phil's real. At this point, they're both equally probable, but Clint knows which one he wants.

"Phil." He whispers. 

Phil leans down as Clint leans up and their lips meet.

It's not perfect, in fact, it's pretty much a disaster. With the agony in the corner of Clint's mind, and Phil's obviously unhealthy state they can't do much. But the contact zings between them, like a lightning strike, and if Clint focuses just on that it's easy to accept that Phil is real, that he's alive. Only one of Phil's hands still cups his jaw, but the thumb sweeps back and forth over Clint's cheekbone, lulling him. The other hand has fallen to brace Phil on the duct, and it's shaking, straining under the weight.

Half-terrified that his hands will go straight through, Clint reaches up to bury his fingers in Phil's hair. His husband whimpers into his mouth. On a roll, Clint gently tugs on Phil's other arm, lowering him down onto Clint's chest. Their mouths disconnect, and Phil hisses out a breath as his weight comes down to rest on Clint.

"Phil?" Clint asks, very, very carefully. "Are you hurt?"

The hand that had been cupping Clint's jaw drifts up to scratch through the archer's hair. Phil rests entirely on Clint but it's not much of a struggle, and that's worrying. It becomes more so when Phil doesn't answer right away.

"It's just the scar. I'm not back to normal yet." 

Clint feels as if the air has been knocked out of him. He moves his trapped hand to trace along Phil's back, finding the padding of a bandage. It makes him want to vomit. 

He's shaking, and Phil moves as if to kiss him again, but he can't, not yet. Clint wraps both arms around Phil, careful, and holds on. After a second, Phil relaxes, and nuzzles the side of Clint's neck. They aren't normally this affectionate, not by a long shot, but feeling safe for the first time in months, Clint thinks he could get used to it.

He loses time, pressed against Phil, but he doesn't waste it.

* 

"We have a problem." Director Fury tells them.

Steve wonders just how much trouble he'd get into for trying to brain himself on the table. Everything is problems, always, eternally. For all that things went to hell back in the forties, they altogether never quite manage the level of an Avengers Problem. Yes, it deserves the capitals.

Fury does his intimidation thing, leaning forward onto the table, glaring at them all like this is somehow their fault. For once, it probably isn't. Natasha clears her throat.

"Sir?" 

Fury turns his gaze on her, and Natasha meets it steadily. He sighs, a great gust of air, and Steve starts to feel the first inklings of worry.

"As of an hour ago, we appear to have lost Hawkeye in the damn air ducts."

Steve blinks. So does the rest of the team.

"How the hell did you lose Clint in the air ducts? He has wings right now, and wings aren't really conducive to tight spaces. Also, last time I checked, Hawkass was unconscious and likely going to stay that way for awhile." Tony points out.

Fury scowls.

"Apparently some jackass didn't do anything to keep him under and he woke up. Barton proceeded to level the medics trying to attend to him and headed into the ducts. The wings disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Someone has to go after him!"

"I'll go." Natasha's voice cuts through the clamor. "I've trained in the vents before. I'll find Clint and talk him down."

Steve's nod of assent is echoed around the room, excepting Fury.

"There's no need, Agent Romanoff. We already have an agent on-route to retrieve him."

Bruce snorts, but it's Thor who speaks up.

"Would not a member of our family be the most rightful choice? Clinton does not trust easily." 

Fury crosses his arms.

"I'd prefer leaving you idiots to clean up your own messes, but I'm afraid this agent was particularly... invested." The Director drawls. "Don't worry, it's someone Barton trusts, above all else."

"Above even fair lady Natasha?" Thor challenges. The god is straightening up now, glaring something fearsome at Fury. Steve finds himself mirroring the others, tensing to defend his team.

"Above even Romanoff."

"The only person," Natasha says lowly, sharply, "That could possibly fit that bill is dead."

Steve shares a glance with Tony, the newly acquired information at the forefront of his mind. _Coulson_.

Steve whips his eyes back to Fury, who considers his options, lips flat and cruel.

"Agent Coulson did not die in the attack on the Helicarrier."

Steve thinks he must have misheard that, thinks that he must be going crazy. Fury must mistake their stares for anger because he starts talking again. Steve hasn't even had a chance to get angry yet.

"You needed a push, something to make you a team. I did what I had to."

Finally, it sinks in, and Steve sees red. 

He blinks away the rage to find his fist wrapped in a coat collar, pinning Fury to the wall. 

"I cannot believe you!" Tony is shouting in the background.

"I think I need to remove myself from this environment." Bruce whispers tightly.

"May I take over, Steve?"

This last one is Natasha, spoken softly into his ear. Steve thinks of the look on her face when she talked about Coulson earlier, and nods once. He steps away.

Natasha breaks Fury's nose in one sharp hit, and lays him on the ground with the next. Crouching down, she asks the Director something that Steve can't make out. Fury, fingers already pinching the bridge of his nose to try and stop some of the bleeding, mutters,

"He's been in medical, recovering. Only came out of the coma a month and change ago, and now he's disappeared into the goddamn vents after his husband."

Before Natasha can continue her interrogation or just skip straight to the torture, there's a commotion in the hallway. Reflexively, the team arms themselves, grabbing whatever they have to hand. Assistant Director Hill doesn't flinch at Mjolnir or Steve's shield. She also doesn't laugh at the assortment of pens and vases aimed in her direction. She does however, raise an eyebrow at Fury, bleeding and sprawled across the rug.

"Sir." She says finally. "Hawkeye has barricaded himself in medical with an apparently not-dead Coulson."

Fury might curse, but none of the Avengers hear him. They're too busy making a beeline for their injured and resurrected teammates.

*

"How bad is it?" Phil asks, some time before the Avengers receive news. 

Clint shrugs into his chest, a half-aborted motion. He's comfortable, here with Phil. If he just doesn't think about the overbearing and agonizing pain where his wings are in his mind, Clint is in fact perfect.

"Clint." Phil whispers, scolding, like he hasn't turned in his paperwork. 

"Broken and scraped up pretty bad." Clint says, casually, as if he doesn't still feel sick when he thinks of his wing, a mess of blood and feathers. 

"I know that." Phil says, and Clint wants to ask how, but Phil's continuing before he can. "How bad does it hurt, Clint?"

He's going to lie, because he really truly does not want to move from this spot and risk Phil disappearing or no one else being able to see him, but when Clint opens his mouth Phil scratches a particularly sensitive spot on his scalp.

All coherent thought dissolves into a puddle of goo, and Clint finds himself answering honestly before he remembers why he shouldn't.

"Worse than Cairo and about equal with Kosovo." Clint mumbles. "But it also feels like someone cracked open my skull because that's where my wing's hiding."

Phil stiffens progressively as Clint continues before finally swearing.

"If we're at Kosovo level," Phil starts, already shifting, untangling himself from Clint, "Then we are getting that wing set and you drugged up enough that you don't know your own name."

"No." Clint shouts, before he can stop himself. It echoes down the air duct, ringing off the metal. If someone hears it, Clint doesn't care because all he can think about is the hands on his wings, hurting so badly, and he'd rather die than let someone hurt his wings, not again, not ever-

"Clint, I need you to breathe for me, in and out." Phil's voice is strained, very slightly, but it's still the same tone he uses when he gives orders in the field, and Clint finds himself obeying automatically.

When he can think clearly again, Clint imagines he should be embarrassed at nearly having a panic attack at the idea of something wholly necessary. Instead, he buries his face in Phil's neck.

"I can't." Clint whispers. "I can't let anyone touch my wings, you're the only person, I can't let them."

"Okay." Phil says. "Okay, we'll figure something out." He strokes a hand down Clint's back, gentle, like he's something fragile.

With a bit of teamwork and maneuvering, they end up back in medical, in one of the exam rooms. There's enough space for him to completely manifest his wings, and apparently enough supplies, Phil says. They lock the door, and barricade it with an empty exam table. Phil is pale and sweating by the end of it.

Unmeasurable guilty, Clint pushes aside his own agony to shove his husband down into a chair. They can start when Phil gets some color back in his face.

"How're we going to do this?" Clint asks, when he deems Phil's recovery acceptable. Phil rises, and heads to the cabinet in the corner of the room. Reaching in, Phil waves a roll of gauze, what looks like the makings of a cast, and a vial of morphine in Clint's direction. "I'm sorry I asked."

Phil grimaces.

"I know. Manifest them please?"

Closing his eyes, Clint breathes deep, grabs onto that place in his mind, ripe with agony, and focuses.

When his wings burst into the room, a bundle of blood and feather, the pain magnifies. Clint shouts, and drops to his knees. His left wing is on fire, and even inhaling is too much of a jostle, too much agony. Its weight against his back is wrong, unbalanced, and it's all wrong.

He doesn't realize he's crying until Phil sweeps a thumb across his cheek to wipe the tears away. 

"I'm sorry." Phil whispers. "I'm so goddamn sorry."

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and exhales, shaky. Carefully, he leans into Phil's hand.

"It's okay. Just do it."

Of course, they can't just leap into it. First, Phil needs to clean off some of this blood, bandage what he can, and then after that they can deal with the break. It's agony, even simply brushing against the wing, and Phil cleaning away the blood is nearly worse than the injury itself. After a while, an eternity, he starts to feel the warm water, Phil's hands, calloused and familiar. It isn't quite as bad then.

Throughout the entire process, Phil keeps up a litany of platitudes, a stream of meaningless words. Clint knows he's trying to make sure that the archer doesn't forget who's touching him, and he's tempted to tell Phil that he can't forget, not when for the first time he feels safe. Despite the pain, Phil makes him feel safe.

The actual process of splinting the wing is mostly a blur. All Clint knows is the prick of the needle and everything numbing a tiny bit. Then there is pain, and he might be screaming, but Phil is there, Phil is stroking his hair, Phil is alive.

By the end of it, they're both exhausted, but Clint's wing doesn't hurt as much, and it feels aligned. The constriction of the cast will get old fast, but for now, Clint is content. He reaches up, cautious of bumping his wing, and wraps his arms around Phil. They lean into each other, and Clint tries to remind himself that this is real. It's difficult, but the pain, and the stickiness of their embrace helps convince him. Hallucinations are rarely so imperfect.

In his husband's arms, Clint's eyelids start drooping, helped along by the morphine and the simple wear of the day. The position isn't comfortable though, not permanently, not with his wing and bruises from the crash. Resigning himself to having to move soon, Clint strokes his good wing along Phil's back, once, twice. The rough thread of the hospital gown is odd, but underneath that is skin, familiar when it's Phil's. 

Phil gently smooths down feathers, and Clint huffs out a happy breath against his neck. 

Then with a crash, five Avengers force their way inside the room. Clint's next huff is decidedly _not_ happy.

"Fuck me." Clint mutters in Phil's neck.

"Later, dear."

*

"You have wings!"

"You're alive!"

"Clint, you asshole."

"Son of Coul!"

"Remember," Clint whispers into Phil's neck, "That time we vacationed in Singapore, and we got to stay in that cabin far away from civilization."

"Clint, we were in deep cover. You ended up getting shot that mission."

"Can we go back there?" He pleads. Hell even with the bullet wound, it would be preferable to this clusterfuck. "I'll try not to get shot this time!"

"Clint Barton," Natasha starts, hand yanking him away from Phil. She uses the other hand to whack him across the back of his head. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

"That I have wings so I probably wouldn't die?" Clint offers, waving around his right wing. Doing so bumps Phil, who winces. Clint adjusts slightly, grimacing an apology, and this time the wing brushes against the far wall. Assembled in the doorway, the Avengers gape at the extra appendage, and glancing over his shoulder, Clint can see why.

After so long with them, Clint's almost become accustomed and indifferent to his wings. He loves them, because they're a part of him, his favorite part, but he forgets just how beautiful they can look. Right now, his wing is fully extended, soft downy underside bared to the air. Though the right wing bears the majority of Clint's scarring from both his father and his brother, it's only visible in the a patch of white feathers. The wing arches above him and Phil like some glorious protector, golden and brown. The feathers shine, and now that he's thinking about it, Clint gives the wing a rustle. Droplets of water from Phil's washing shower to the ground. 

Even Clint admits it's rather impressive.

"Beautiful." Phil whispers, for Clint's ears only.

"Holy shit." Tony says numbly from behind them. It serves to remind Clint that there are in fact other people in the room.

"Truly, Clinton!" Thor booms. "You have the most magnificent wings I have seen on Midgard, and could compete with even Asgard's finest!"

Clint blushes, and tries to ignore the little curl of pleasure in his chest. Jesus, it's not like he's a swooning maiden he knows his wings are gorgeous it's not like he needs Thor to tell him.

"Thank you?"

Tony claps his hands.

"Okay, while I definitely want to know what the hell is going on, especially with the wings and with Agent- because you were literally dead, Pepper cried and that is not okay, we really have to talk about that- I think it's time we blow this Popsicle stand."

"You aren't going anywhere." Director Fury says from the hallway.

Clint straightens, and takes Phil's hand to clamber to his feet. They lean on each other, Clint's good wing protecting Phil's back, the Avengers taking a defensive position in front of them. Despite the fact that Clint didn't trust them with his wings, they still move to shield him. 

Something sweet burns in his throat.

"Yes, we are." And that's Steve, playing team leader, defying orders for his friends. Phil's grip tightens a little on his arm, and Clint resists the urge to grin at him. His husband is such a fanboy.

"Captain, one of your team members has in fact lied to SHIELD for years, and Agent Coulson has not been cleared by Medical. You have no right to walk out of here with either one of them."

"You have no right to keep them." Steve fires back, obstinate.

"Trying to stop us leaving could make me very angry." Bruce says, quietly. Now that Clint looks at Doctor Banner he does in fact seem to be going a bit green around the edges. That won't do.

"Respectfully sir," Phil says, voice rumbling through Clint's chest, "Fuck off. I've played your games, I've lied to my team, I've let you fake my own goddamn death. I have gone above and beyond the call of duty, and if you don't let me and my husband leave here right now, I will walk away. Do you understand? You will have my badge and my gun, because my loyalties are with my agents, and my team."

Natasha steps back to flank Phil's side, and it's just like the old days, a team against everything else. Now, the team is bigger, though it's no less true.

Fury growls.

"Phil-"

"Nick, you lied to me. You told me to my face my husband was dead, you refused me his badge and his dog tags, you watched it _destroy me_." Clint hisses. "Don't you dare think you can pull the friend card right now without me punching you in the face. Though I see someone else got there first."

"It was my pleasure." Natasha purrs.

Nick glares, but when Tony takes the first two steps out the door, he doesn't stop them.

*

They board a Quinjet, and while Clint is the qualified pilot of the team, no one thinks of letting him fly. The team all but herds him and Phil to a seat, and it's a relief to be off his feet.

Someone's hand, not Phil's gently brushes at his wing.

Clint panics and winches in the appendage, because one of his wings is already out for the count he can't lose the other he can't-

Nat walks into his sight line, hands up. She doesn't apologize, but Clint can read the hurt and confusion in her eyes. 

"I don't let people touch my wings." He says very quietly, not quite an apology, not quite an explanation.

"Why?" Nat asks, just as quietly.

Clint slumps, stares at his curled fist, before looking at his family gathered close around him. Jarvis is piloting the jet, which would worry him except that he trusts Tony, trusts them all really. Clint can give them this. Phil's hand rises briefly to cup the back of his neck, before dropping back down to his waist. The message is clear: whatever Clint decides to tell them, Phil will back him up, one hundred percent.

With a last look up at the team, at Steve and Thor's earnest expressions, at Bruce and Tony's curious ones, at Natasha, Clint sighs. He returns his gaze to his feet, and starts to speak.

"They first appeared when I was six years old. It's a family thing, apparently, on my mother's side, but my brother didn't get them and my father didn't know. I didn't learn how to conceal them quick enough," Clint huffs, "Or maybe I just didn't want to. Either way, my father found out, and he came at me with a broken bottle, tried to cut them off." Clint spreads his wing, moving a little so it lays on Phil's lap. With his left hand he traces the patch of white feathers, remembering vividly what it felt like when glass cut into flesh. Very pointedly, he keeps his gaze on the wing. "My parents died, and Barney and I ended up in the circus. I learned to shoot, got in the shows, started getting fed regularly. Barney got jealous.

"Back when they first appeared, he never wanted anything to do with my wings. I think he hated them just as much as our father, but only because he didn't have them. I was sixteen, Barney eighteen, and he asked to see them. I thought- I don't know what I thought, maybe that he was going to accept them finally, but I never got to show them to anyone and I thought I could trust my own brother, you know?" Clint shivers, and he's back at the circus, grinning at Barney who's asking him to fly, to show him. How he'd missed the dark look in his brother's eyes he'll never know, how he missed the split second of disgust when Clint flared his wings- "I climbed up the high wire and jumped, did a few tricks, stupid shit, showing off. Barney picked up a bow, and shot me out of the sky."

Clint sucks in a breath, tries to focus on Phil's grip on his waist, the soothing motion of his thumb.

"It's lucky he was such a bad shot, because a few inches up there's an artery, Mama told me about it when my father nearly sliced it. If Barney had hit it, I would've bled out in the dirt, easy. Instead, he hit a few inches off, missed everything important really, but it still took me out of the air." Clint pressed a thumb in the ragged circle where the arrow had gone in. He'd tended to the wound himself, tied it with rags. "Broke my wrist and a rib when I hit the ground, but I lived. Barney walked away and left me for dead."

Clint drops his hands in his lap, and Phil's free hand wraps around the right one. His husband squeezes, and Clint squeezes back just as tight. 

"That's why I didn't tell you guys about the wings, because two of the last three people that found out about them nearly destroyed them. It's why I'm going to say sorry now for the fact that if one of you happens to brush them even accidentally I'm probably going to freak out, violently. It's not that I don't trust you guys, but people's hands on my wings generally mean pain, and I can't do it again." The last part is a whisper, and Clint doesn't tell them of how before Barney walked away he'd crouched by Clint's head and traced a hand over his wing. 'I'll finish the job where Dad didn't' he said. Barney buried a hand in his feathers and ripped the arrow out. Clint remembers screaming and then nothing.

He doesn't mention it, because he doesn't think he can.

"I am sorry for your pain, Clinton." Thor says, solemn, and Clint still can't look up because there's traitorous tears in his eyes. Thor's big hand comes up to rest on his head, and instead of dangerous it feels the opposite, feels like safety. Clint sucks in a breath that sounds wet even to his ears. "We will of course bow to your wishes in this matter. Your fine wings will come to no harm."

"We'll fucking kill anyone who tries." Tony snarls. Clint's head jerks up at that, and there's his team, still there, still looking at him with nothing near disgust. Tony's eyes are shadowed, and Clint thinks he understands bastard fathers. Bruce stoops to meet his eyes.

"You're the Other Guy's favorite." He says simply.

"I don't take very kindly to people hurting my family." Steve adds, sounding just like the icon he is, sounding earnest and honest and like apple pie and sunshine. Clint blinks harshly, hopes for it to conceal the wetness on his cheeks.

Natasha doesn't speak, not with the others, but as Clint wraps his wing around himself, mindful of the bulky cast on the other, she sits on the floor of the transport, back to his knees. 

" _I'll take care of you_." She murmurs in Russian. Clint bites back a sob, nods.

"I know, thank you."

Phil presses a kiss to his temple, holds there, lips soft. Clint relaxes, as Phil's breath teases the edges of his hair.

"I love you." Phil says into his ear.

Clint shudders, and the tension drains out of him. He's okay, it'll be okay.

For once, he believes it.


End file.
